Daddy Issues
by DeiDei-Demonique
Summary: (working title) "Mycroft? I know you don't always answer the phone but this time it's important. Something's wrong with Sherlock. He's acting strange, even for him..." In the early hours of the morning, Mycroft Holmes receives a voicemail from Dr John Watson regarding his little brother. Luckily, he knows just the man for the situation. (no pairings, slightly OOC at times)
1. Chapter 1

**I know, I know. I haven't been online and you can complain if you want, but I have a lot of school work going on and setting up for my birthday next weekend (I will finally be 18!)**

**So anyway, this idea popped into my head briefly a while ago, and today it pretty much decided to write itself. So much so that what was originally going to be a one-shot seems to need an extra chapter and about a thousand more words.**

**However, despite my lack of updating, please ENJOY!**

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_**Disclaimer: DeiDei does not own BBC Sherlock and she is far too tired rn to think of a creatively written disclaimer..**_

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It was quiet and very late as the man walked swift through the empty corridors, each devoid room locked tightly. Soon enough, he came across the only room with a light source, one which seeped from under the door and illuminated his ironed black trousers and neatly folded umbrella. There was no one with him this time, unlike all others where he was constantly hounded. The soft click of a lock and the tap tap of the umbrella were the only sounds as he stepped into the room and up to the desk, lowering himself into the seat.

Mycroft Holmes was a busy man, very important too. And from such, he found that it was very rare that he had much time to be by himself, and often ended up as bored as his brother. That is, perhaps, one of the reasons he was initially so interested to find the multiple missed calls and a voicemail on his office answerphone. This joy was lost, however, when he realised who had been trying to contact him. Dr Watson was not one he would say would call Mycroft out of choice. Rather to either complain or express worry, neither of which were any good.  
_"Mycroft? I know you don't always answer the phone but this time it's important. Something's wrong with Sherlock. He's acting strange, even for him, and won't acknowledge a word I say. At least usually there is SOME kind of response. He's pretty much been out of it for the past couple of days and don't worry, he's not using again. I've already checked. Just.. *sigh* ..come over and see if you can sort him out. I wouldn't normally admit it but I am genuinely scared here. I'd say he's depressed, but I'm not really that sort of doctor. Could you just phone me or come over or something so that I'm not completely in the dark here."  
_Mycroft sighed deeply, sinking heavily into his chair and rubbing his eyes with one hand whilst haphazardly placing his phone on his desk with the other. By the sounds of it, a few tough cases and Sherlock's incessant decisions to keep every little aspect of himself sealed up in a locked box had rebounded once again and the burst of sudden emotion was too much for the younger man to handle. For once, there was a situation that neither he nor Dr Watson would have to ability to heal. Luckily, Mycroft knew the man for the job. Clearing his throat briefly, he picked up the discarded mobile and dialled in the number almost instinctively.  
"Hello?"  
The voice on the other end was slurred and suspicious, as if he had just woken. And why wouldn't it be? It was early hours of the morning, obviously he would have been asleep. Mycroft didn't bother with pleasantries.  
"He needs you again. We'll be over within the next two hours, within one if we're lucky. Make sure you're ready. It sounds bad tonight."  
The call was disconnected before the other man could respond, but it didn't matter. He never disagreed.

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The moment the sleek black car pulled up to the curb outside of 221B Baker Street, John felt an immediate sigh of relief, mixed in with a bit of fear and worry. Sherlock still hadn't come out of his room. He hadn't eaten in four days, which wouldn't have been that unusual if he had been on a case. Problem was, he had been denying any case calls for at least three days. The only time he had really left the room was to visit the bathroom when John was "asleep".  
Although the situation both confused and unnerved the doctor, he knew better than to panic. Take care of him as best he could, hope it wears off and if not - god forbid - call in his brother. He tried, every day, to talk to Sherlock, but the man had only given him a blank glance in response. The good sign was that there was no flushed skin, laboured breathing or red rimmed eyes, ruling out both drugs and sickness. He had left the detective a cup of tea every few hours, leaving it just outside the door and knocking once, sensing that he wouldn't want anyone in the room with him. More often than not, the cup would remain outside the room going cold, with but a few sips taken from it. Even those seemed to have stopped now, which led to contacting Mycroft.  
Ever since leaving the voicemail, John had been on edge, listening even closer to every rustle and creak, every car that passed outside. The two near knocks against the door downstairs barely settled him, but it was enough. He could hear two voices expressing brief pleasantries, and soon the stairs we're creaking. Although to john, it sounded like more than just Mycroft. His question was answered when the door opened and Mycroft stepped through, a worried look on his face and a fairly strong looking man stood silently behind him.

Having lived with Sherlock for many years, Mycroft was quick to notice the slight stiffen in the doctor's stature and the wary look in his eyes as they twitched slightly between both men in the doorway.

"Calm, Dr Watson. He is necessary for our current… situation. I recommend you rest whilst we are gone. Sherlock shall be returned tomorrow morning, most likely before you wake."

He was glad he was able to get it all out, and that John had not noticed the soft tremble hidden beneath his words. Despite having come across this many times, Mycroft still felt tense and unnerved, possibly even scared if his pride would allow it. It was one of the few things that reminded him that Sherlock was once a child, and still was at times. Hidden it all behind grandeur and snarky remarks. Sparing John a brief glance, both men brushed past him, shoes thumping lightly as they went. It wasn't hard to find Sherlock's room. It was quiet, near the bathroom if he should need it on the rare occurrence he was in there, and yet not too far from the living room either. He imagined there would be a small window, not too close to the bed, but enough to keep his room naturally lit and spread the natural temperatures correctly around the room without it being overwhelming.

Also, the cold cup of tea was a dead giveaway.

Mycroft took a soft breath, almost as if to prepare himself, before knocking gently against the door. After a few moments, no response was heard, and so he tried rapping slightly harder. This time he heard a slight shuffling sound; yet no bleary eyed detective came to the door. He should have expected as much. Straitening his spine and pulling his expression back into a mask, in case the doctor came to see, he grasped the doorknob tightly and pushed open the door.

Although he knew what he was going to see, it still didn't stop the discomfort from bubbling in his stomach as he took in the sight before him. Random objects were scattered across the floor and draped over units. The wardrobe doors hung open slightly and the chair beside the desk had been overturned at one point, although now it seemed to slowly be burying itself in the papers falling from the desk. The bed sheets were spread out and crumpled, some still on the mattress whilst others were strewn beside the bed. It was an organized chaos, complete with semi open window with wind lazily tickling at the items within its proximity. Settled unnaturally still amongst the blankets was Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft let the sadness seep into his eyes at the sight of his younger brother. He was shivering occasionally, his lithe frame far too thin and his face gaunt. His skin was paler than usually and his lips were cracked with dehydration, not to mention the gentle wheeze that came out with his short breaths. But perhaps, the most distressing were his eyes. They were open and blinking every so often and they looked so dull. So blank and unfocussed and lacking the distinct spark that was always hidden in the raven-haired man. _This is worse than usual.._ he thought to himself, before giving a quick nod at his "assistant" still standing in the doorway. Mycroft stepped out of the way, allowing the other man to pick his brother up, wrapping his coat (which even Mycroft had not noticed him pick up) around the shaking body and tucking him against his body with a gentleness none would think he could possess. At least Sherlock was still dressed.

As the two (technically, three) men passed by a stunned and anxious Dr Watson, Mycroft stopped. He signalled to the other to take the detective out to the car, before turning back to face his brother's flatmate.

"This is slightly worse than I had thought, and I will need to 'borrow' him for most of tomorrow, possibly til evening. Please do rest, Dr Watson. Despite what you think, my brother would have both of our head if he knew I let you get in such a state over something as trivial as himself. Thank you for calling me."

The last sentence was barely a whisper but it was heard loud and clear. Mycroft was almost out the door when he heard an almost raspy voice behind him.

"Children."

"What?"

"The last case.. before this happened. There were three children, and they died. Sherlock managed to get to one of them in her last moments. Something happened, wouldn't tell us what though. He seemed fine afterwards, but then.. _this_ started up.."

The new information flew around the eldest Holmes' head, his face contorting slightly as he thought. He nodded in thanks to the doctor, before leaving swiftly out of the door and out into Baker Street where the sleek black car was waiting.

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**Yeah, like I said. It was only meant to be about 1k words but that blew up a little. There will be a second chapter, that you can expect in just over a week (I hope)**

**Please review and let me know what you think! And maybe who you think the mysterious man is?!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Yeah, this is seriously short compared to what I usually write, but you'll have to forgive me. I have to write a dissertation for my Media class, and I think I've changed my topic about 4 time by now cause writing is haaaaaard!**

**But anyway, here is a snippet so you don't think I am ignoring or have forgotten.**

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_**Disclaimer: DeiDei does not own Sherlock. If she did, then she would be able to write a better dissertation..**_

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**Chapter Two:**

In the brief journey between Sherlock's flat and the house they were visiting, Mycroft took the time to glance at his watch, finding the time to be as expected at around half two in the morning. The rest of the time in the car was spent watching his brother, who had barely made a sound since Mycroft had entered the flat. Now that there was no one to see, he let down the mask. The stone walls crumbled and he felt unwanted tears prickle and fall from his eyes. It made him feel weak but he barely cared. He did this every time anyway. But this time was worse, worse than what he told the doctor. So bad that Sherlock may end up in hospital before the sun could rise. The thoughts that bombarded him served only to make the tears fall faster. A slight pressure threw him from his daydreams, and drew his attention down to where his hand rested on the leather seating. However, it wasn't alone anymore. Sherlock was still staring blankly out the window of his car as they sped down the empty streets, and yet his pale and cold hand had come to rest atop of Mycroft's, squeezing it once, carefully, before leaving it to rest with his brothers'.

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The house they pulled up at was nothing special, very plain, very _normal_, average, even. But it was what – or rather, who – was in the house that was important. Quite possibly the most important man in the universe at the moment (excluding Sherlock), at least in Mycroft's opinion. The door was painted white, like all the others in the street, and the windows held simple blue curtains. No lights were shown through the glass, and yet Mycroft had not expected there to be. His "assistant" had once again picked up his brother, whose half-lidded eyes were still staring off into the distance, his body boneless despite the fact he was being held up by a stranger.

Mycroft sighed and rapped at the white door. 'so _dull_' his mind supplied in a very Sherlock like voice. Maybe he should buy him some paint, or perhaps just hire someone to paint it.. His thoughts were cut off as the door swung over quietly, as if afraid of waking someone. The figure in the doorway looked surprisingly awake considering the time. Perhaps he was just used to it. A lack of sleep was something that often accompanied the Holmes brothers.

"Come in." he said, moving back to allow the three men to enter his living room. His voice was slightly gruff and his breath tinted with coffee, strong and black. The living room was, at least, a little more interesting than the exterior. The soft suede of the sofa was a soothing chocolate coloured, and mahogany furniture were decorated with false floral collections. Nearby was another sofa, a darker brown than the other. This was the one that Mycroft had Sherlock placed upon, who immediately turned to face away from the other three members in the room, tucking his face into the neatly placed cushion. It broke the hearts of two of the men in the room, and even made the expression fall on the third, unnamed man. With a subtle flick of his wrist, Mycroft sent his assistant back to the car.

"I told you it was bad.." he said once they were alone. His voice was but a mutter, yet the other man heard his as clear as if he were shouting. Without realising, the eldest Holmes brother had wrapped his hand into the hair of the younger, twirling his fingers in the dark locks. Sherlock didn't do anything, most likely having fallen asleep under his brother's hand. His attention shifted, however, when another hand came in and gently gripped his wrist. A light tugging pulled his hand from the hair and his eyes to meet another pair.

"He'll be fine. He's a stubborn man, Mycroft."

"As are you, Gregory."

With a sharp nod and a quick glance at his brother, Mycroft turned and left, shutting the door silently behind him.

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**Thank you for reading these.. what is it, 700 words? ... anyway, hope it was acceptable. Review if you want and all that.**

**PS, my current dissertation topic is Sherlock Holmes! I'm pretty sure this is my final idea now.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I know it's been a while, and there's not really much action in this chappie but meh. At least you ended up with something! That's better than my schoolwork is doing rn!**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

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_**Disclaimer: DeiDei does not own Sherlock. Simple as.**_

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The first hour was silent, just the two of them. Both were awake and aware, but neither had much to do other than to sit or lie as they were. It was a peace they were accustomed to, one they had done almost every time the "visits" happened. If Sherlock was thinking right then, he would have been counting to the exact seconds when Lestrade would stand from his chair, his perch for watching the detective, to go and make tea and soup. To retrieve the soft auburn blankets that he always draped over the younger man whilst the kettle boiled and small flames licked at the copper pan on the stove.

As always, it was painful for Lestrade to see Sherlock so quiet, curled up on himself on his sofa. The detective had become like a son to him, and it was times like this that he could see how young the dark-haired man actually was. He was so accustomed to him bounding around in excitement, like a new puppy you just brought home. Sherlock was the same at every crime scene, practically bouncing where he stood, never staying still for long. John may as well have been a disgruntled owner by the way he ended up following him around, a sigh on his lips but a glint in his eyes. It felt so.. _wrong_ to have the younger male silent and stiff, barely breathing, without even a glance around the room.

He was thrown from his thoughts by the click of his kettle, indicating the water had boiled. It was almost mechanical, the way he put the correct amount of sugar into the mug with the teabag. The way he pulled out the milk and various ingredients from the fridge, pouring the milk in the mug and laying everything else on his kitchen side automatically. It was a routine between them, whether they knew it or not. Sherlock would arrive, lie on the sofa and stare off into the distance for a while. Lestrade would get up and cover him with his blanket, one that was never used for anything else, before going into the kitchen. He would make tea, and place it in front of the detective, who by then would've fallen asleep. By the time the tea was cool enough to drink, the soup would be simmering on the stove, only 20 minutes away from being done, and Greg would come and make sure Sherlock drank it, whether he wanted to or not. If he was still unresponsive, Lestrade would feed him the soup like you would a small child, sit them up and spoon feed it them. Soon after, he would always respond. Quietly at first, but within the hour, a full conversation would form. Sherlock would say everything that had happened, even if Lestrade had been there, and Greg never interrupted. He would hold him as he cried, calm him when his breathing became erratic, cool the anger that flowed in his veins in an instant. And sometimes, they had to use the 'last resort'. Unfortunately, tonight seemed like it would be one of those 'last resort' times.

As expected when he entered the living room, Sherlock had dozed off lightly on the sofa, face nuzzled into the cushion, soft breath blowing at the loose strands of his scarf (which he had refused to remove). The mug of tea was placed cautiously before the detective on the small table. An observant gaze from Lestrade was all that was needed for him to confirm the other man was asleep, slightly malnourished but he was definitely going to fix that. Back in the kitchen, he busied himself with chopping up various vegetables and placing them in the pot of boiling water, a range of spices following shortly after. An old family recipe of his, from when poverty was high and immune systems were low. The sort of thing that could save you on the verge of death. Well, maybe not quite that good, but definitely enough to help someone get every nutrient they needed.

It felt like barely seconds before everything was chopped and in the pan, boiling quietly on his stove. Not a sound came from the other room, yet Greg hadn't expected anything really. Sometimes, the detective would speak in his sleep, his voice rough and grating, the type which burnt at the throat of the speaker. This night was silent, though. Were one not to know, they would think all residents of the house were at peace, at rest. And yet, as Lestrade entered the living room once again, he knew it was anything but. His footsteps thudded gently against the carpet as he walked, the noises enticing a soft groan from the younger man.

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A dip in the sofa was enough to "wake" him, the soft hands the lifted him up barely keeping him in consciousness. It was hard for him to focus on anything, not even registering as he was pulled up into a sitting position, his eyes glazed and staring off at the earth toned blurs in front of him. The first thing he actually noticed was the slight pressure against him lips, the lukewarm liquid brushing against them. His first instinct was to deny the sustenance his body craved, to push away the fluid trying to force it's way past his lips, but the weakness he felt was too overwhelming and he quickly gave in. As soon as the tea touched his tongue, he began gulping furiously, almost to the point where he felt he would choke, but the imminent danger did nothing to stop him. It was only when the cup was pulled away that he took the moment to breathe, hearing the words float around him, telling him to slow down. After a few more slower sips, he heard the voice again. It was deep and familiar, soothing and hushing him in time with the hand he hadn't realised was brushing lightly through his curls.

"Dad..?"

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**So, feel free to review, let me know whether you wish to burn it in the fires of Mount Doom or claim your undying love for it. I don't really mind, but I would prefer to know what you think.**


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